(Minerva Press, 1992)
I.
This collection of short stories by Michel Tournier - originally published as Le Coq de Bruyère (1978) - is a queer and often disconcerting mix of the sordid supernatural (to borrow the author's own description).
Such a mix will, of course, not be to everybody's liking; one anonymous reviewer dismissed the tales as curiosities at best and sneered that Tournier was "no more than a cerebral Joyce Carol Oates, lazily toying with dark urges and forbidden pleasures" [a].
Other readers - myself included - who enjoy philosophically-informed fiction that explores the porno-mythic imagination and accelerates what Jonathan Dollimore termed the perverse dynamic, will, however, like this book - and like it a lot.
To be perfectly frank, I don't care if Tournier is a didactic writer, or if his characters "often seem more like prototypes, moving with the momentum of the ideas they embody, than like real people" [b]. The last thing I wish to encounter in works of art are real people. I meet real people every day in the real world and I'm sick to death of them.
Perhaps that's why I was so excited by the concept of photogenesis in 'Veronica's Shrouds', one of the stand-out stories in The Fetishist, which "implies the possibility of producing photos that go beyond the real object" [c]. Such photos do not merely capture a model's likeness or reveal a hidden aspect; they create something new and allow for a becoming-photogenic (even if this process can prove fatal, as it does here, to poor Hector).
Other tales that I absolutely loved include 'The Red Dwarf' and 'Death and the Maiden' - both of which inspired posts on Torpedo the Ark: click here and here, for example. The young female protagonist of the latter, Melanie Blanchard, is, for me, one of the most memorable figures within 20th-century French literature; a character that might have been given us by the great Belgian writer Amélie Nothomb.
As for the story which, in the English translation, lends its title to the collection and which I was particularly looking forward to read, well, I have to admit, it's a bit disappointing. I don't know why that is, but suspect it's because I don't quite share the protagonist's passion for slips, stockings, panties, and bras, etc. Nevertheless, it's a story worth commenting upon at more length ...
II.
'The Fetishist' is a mildly amusing story of sexual obsession; the monologue of an erotomaniac, Martin, who has briefly escaped from the asylum where he has been confined for many years after attempting to steal a garter belt from a woman on the Paris Metro. An extremely harsh and unjust punishment for a man who, whilst he may have kinky tastes and be very highly-strung, isn't mad even in the assessment of the asylum's medical director.
As something of a philosopher on the catwalk, I share Martin's love of clothes and his contempt for nudity:
"They say that the tailor makes the man. How true! A naked man is a worm without dignity, without a function - he has no place in society. I've always had a horror of nudity. Nudity is worse than indecent - it's bestial. Clothes are the human soul. And even more than clothes - shoes." [d]
This is true too, of course, for women - perhaps more so, inasmuch as womanhood and the question of style are inextricably linked (and may, in fact, even be one and the same). And Martin's fate is to be consumed with desire for women and their clothing; not just their underwear, but also their hats and dresses and even handkerchiefs.
Again, what he can't stand is female nudity - not even that of his wife, Antoinette, on their wedding night:
"When I went back into the room [...] Antoinette was lying on the troika. Stark naked! And she was looking at me smiling, a little red in the face even so. But I didn't recognize her. Oh yes, there was her face, with its smile that I loved, but that big white body displayed there in front of my eyes like ... like ... Like something in the butchers window! And I was ashamed for her, for myself, for us both." [203]
What saves the situation for Martin is spotting the chair on which his new wife has discarded her clothes:
"It was like a little island of solid ground in the middle of a swamp. So I went over to the chair [...] and, well, I went down on my knees and buried my face in the pile of clothes. A warm, soft pile, which smelled good, like new-mown hay in the summer sun. I stayed there a long time like that, on my knees, my face hidden. [...] Next I picked up the clothes and held them in a bundle against my face, and stood up, keeping them there so as not to see anything. I walked over to the bed and scattered them over Antoinette's body. And I said: 'Get dressed!' Then I rushed out like a maniac." [203-04]
Readers will doubtless be pleased to know that Martin does eventually consummate the
marriage; but only when Antoinette consents to be fucked fully-dressed.
Afterwards, they establish an agreed set of rules governing their
lovemaking: "To start with we had agreed that she would never appear
naked in front of me." [205] Antoinette quickly grows to like this arrangement,
as it secures her a fashionable wardrobe and a wide range of expensive
and sophisticated lingerie.
Unfortunately, Martin's fetish develops in a new direction - one that leads him along a crooked path; first stealing an "adorable little bra in mauve satin trimmed with lace" [210] from a cashier working at the local cinema, and then ... well, then came the regrettable incident on the Metro: "That was what wrecked everything. I must have been mad!" [212]
Enflamed after a shopping expedition to buy still more fancy lingerie for Antoinette, Martin notices a pretty girl push pass him as he enters the Parisian subway system. That might have been the end of it, only there was a sudden gust of wind:
"A ferocious draught was rushing through the half-opened gates. It hoisted up the girl's miniskirt and held it there for a moment, even though she quickly clamped both hands down on her thighs. But in that split second I had seen a suspender belt, and what a suspender belt, it burned me, it pierced me, it practically killed me [...] In black nylon, gathered wide, the white skin of her thighs contrasting sharply with the long, very long, suspenders which started at the belt and travelled down to collect her stockings in their little chromium-plated clips." [212-13]
Of course, he has to have it. And so the story goes from being a Benny Hill-like fantasy, into an unsavoury tale of sexual assault:
"I chased after the girl. I caught her up, and wedged her into a corner. Luckily we were alone. I stammered: 'Your suspender belt, your suspender belt, quick, quick!' At first she didn't understand. Then, without hesitating, I pulled up her skirt. She screamed. I repeated: 'Quick, your suspender belt, and I'll go away.' Finally, she obeyed. In the twinkling of an eye, it was done. I had my trophy [...] I was radiant. I brandished my suspender belt like a Red Indian flaunting his Paleface's scalp." [213]
When Antoinette discovers what he has done, she leaves him and Martin's life pretty much collapses. He starts stealing from the hoisery section of his local department store, but his heart is no longer in it. Secretly, he longs for the day he is finally caught: "I'd had enough. I wanted to make an end of it." [214]
Eventually, he is caught and is sent to prison. Then is interviewed by a psychiatrist and sent to the asylum. But soon he is gripped once more by his fetish for women's underwear. The fact is that whilst some men stand to attention before the flag of their nation, for illicit lovers like Martin it's frilly black knickers and pink nightslips that make them stiff with respect and desire.
And, whilst I don't condone the incident on the Metro, neither do I condemn fetishists for their peccadilloes.
Notes
[a] From a review of The Fetishist in Kirkus Reviews (15 August, 1984): click here to read online.
[b] Bob Halliday, 'The Sexual Imagination of Michel Turner', The Washington Post, (28 October, 1984): click here to read online.
[c] Michel Tournier, 'Veronica's Shrouds', The Fetishist, trans. Barbara Wright, (Minerva, 1992), p. 96.
[d] Michel Tournier, 'The Fetishist', ibid., p. 199. Future page references to this story will be given directly in the text.
